


Give Me Your Blessing

by Star_Nymph



Series: To The Moon and Back [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asperger Inquisitor, Asperger Syndrome, Differing Religions, F/M, Pre-Battle Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-05 01:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14605743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Nymph/pseuds/Star_Nymph
Summary: The final battle approaches and Corypheus calls her, but she has one last thing to do--one final blessing to receive.





	Give Me Your Blessing

**Author's Note:**

> This part of a bunch of short fics/drabbles I've kept on my tumblr and haven't put on here. Sorry if I'm spamming ya'll, it'll be over soon.
> 
> If you have any comments or helpful tips please feel free to write something. I’ll definitely appreciate the feedback! Thank you for reading!

“Inquisitor, we have no forces to send with you—we must wait for them to return from the Arbor Wilds.”

“It does not matter. He calls me.”

“You’ll have no one there to aid you save for the inner circle.”

“Good. That is how it should be.”

The voices had bounded into a rope and taken hold of her by the wrists and by the neck like the noose of a captor pulling her towards the stage of her death, commanding her to follow where Mythal’s embassy goes. To the new tear in the sky. To where the Anchor calls home.

_Come now, Inquisitor. Come to me._

The wound screams in a tongue only she can comprehend—the sound ignites in the line of her veins, mixing with her rushing blood into her ears, and it threatens her to burst beneath her skin and pool her entrails at her feet if she does not go to Corypheus now. It is tired of this game, the mark tells her by each pulse into her heart, it is time to end it.

She shoves her hand into a glove to silence it; it does nothing, the sound intertwined inside her, but she pretends she has peace for the moment. In silence and alone she takes the task of securing her armor and of tracing the cut across her eye with healing magic. It is too soon, she was told, to go fighting with such an injury. If she is hit in the face again, the scar would open once more and the blood would flow, would blind her only good eye, and she would be left raw from the new, yet old, pain. How would she fight when she was still so used to dropping things out of her line of sight? Even now she acted as if she had two eyes to see, grasping things and then losing them so easily. A demon is not the same as a cup lost just inches out of her blind spot—the cup will wait for her to fix her mistake, but the demon will  _be_  that mistake.

_Face me, frighten little elf. Heed my call._

And heed it she must because she too is done with Corypheus’ war game.

It’s not a hope that wills her to meet his challenge—it is a fury in the marrow of her bones, a viciousness for this to end. Impatience is what she feels for all of this. That Corypheus is a child playing hide and seek, with sticks for weapons and rocks for magic, and she is the one chasing him about, catching him only to get distracted and have his sniveling self wretched from her grasp and hide behind another tree.

Eurydice stepped out onto her balcony, felt the Breach’s wrathful breath roar past her, and scowled at it.

_Enough._

She tied her staff to her back, rolled her shoulders to hold the weight of it, and then left her room. Down she descended from her tower and to her throne room where the Inquisition gathered, praying, crying, waiting to see her off. She swerved away from their sight with the snap of her head as she went not for the entrance but for the small door of the garden, where ivy paths crept with their curling stems and fragile leaves to show her the way. The horses, her companions, the Blight crying her name; it could wait for her to open the door and step into the glittering gold light of the sanctuary to a god she had no care for.

But  _he_  did.

Cullen was on his knees but he turned when she came in, as if he knew she was coming, that he saw her running towards him. The flames of the candles blazed and bathed him in a warm light, turning him to sunlight before her, but it had swirled his eyes into a pitch black and in them she was sure was an agony she could not fix. A new ghost to haunt his sleeping form at night.

He blinked and she saw his face, red and gold, wet with his dripping tears. Hastily he tried to dry his eyes but with no avail; they stayed wet and his trails flooded down his cheeks and off his chin. He made a sound, something born between a choked sob and groan, and hid his face from her.

Eurydice closed the door, trapping herself in the room with Cullen and his voiceless Maker—this Maker whom she had come to loathe, to taste a dirty hatred on her tongue when she thought of his name, because he was given worship and respect, love and excuses, while she and her Gods were rejected, tarnished, labeled savages and villains. This Maker, who let the world turn to madness in his hands and then shunned from it so easily. This Maker, who apparently put his title and his responsibilities upon her, an elf who wanted none of what he offered, who had her own beliefs which were not good enough in the shem’s eyes, and now undertook his plight because what choice did she have otherwise?

This supposed ‘all adoring’ Maker, who had this man—a believer, a loving child kissing his feet—weeping at his alter, begging for his aid and receiving nothing but another lash against his soul.

She hated this non-existent deity—this idea others wished for her to hold onto.

Oh, but she loved Cullen and she knew it was not only his Maker who was at fault for his many tears.

“I have to go.”

“I know. I…” He cleared throat as he stood and his voice cracked in half, sharp as a broken branch, as he spoke, “I should stand with you. I-I should be going out there with you.”

“No.” She said and he flinched, “You are needed here. I could fall and they will look to you three if I do.”

Cullen set his teeth and glared in spite of his wet eyes, as if the statement could make him hate her—or that he wanted it to at this point. “You will not. Maker preserve me, I will throw himself between him and you if I—“

“ _No_.” Eurydice bit out as she suddenly walked toward him and threw herself into his arms, her hands fisting his uneven, rough mantle so tightly that if he pulled away, all the fur would come away with her, held between her long, bony fingers. She pressed her face into his neck and inhaled all of him—as much as her lungs could take, as much as she could remember. “Do not make me leave here with such a thought in my head.”

It took him far too long to hold her, his arms crushing her against his chest, pressing so close that if not for the armor, they would have been flesh and warmth, skin against skin. The candles cast them in a glow and down across the floor was a single shadow, blacker than ink falling from its bottle and long enough to reach the doorway.

“What thought would you have me give to you, then? That I am content or optimistic? Or that I fear not of what will become of you when you go out that door?” He bent his face to hold it against hers and she felt her cheek become damp with his tears. “I can’t. Ask me anything else but do not ask me to lie to you, Eurydice. Please.”

“Be safe. That is all that I desire. Put my heart at ease that as I go into battle, somewhere you still breathe and see and go on without me.” Her fingers went to brush along his lips, to trace his nose, to feel the harsh trickle of his stubble and the crooked trail that was his scar. Desperately, she wanted to embed the whole of him, inside and out, into her body and seal it forever within in her memory, so that if she failed and lay crippled under Corypheus’ foot as the last of herself escaped from between her lips then she could recede deep into her brain and there he would be, almost real enough to touch, to listen to, to kiss.

“’Go on without you’?” He laughed without any of the humor and it stabbed her between the ribs, “I told you not to ask me to lie. Without you, then what is…” He heaved in a trembling breath, unable to go on with the thought, and held her tighter. “I will be safe and so will you. That is what I give you.”

“Is that a blessing from your Maker?”

His lips found her forehead and kissed it softly. “No…it’s one from me.”

Eurydice looked past Cullen to the statue of the Bride staring upon them as if daring her to look away and deny him his wish. “…then so it shall be.” Eurydice said and then whispered, “ _Mythal ma eth. Var lath vir suledin, ena’vun._ ”  

The noose of the ancient voices tugged around her neck, the anchor sang in her veins, and Corypheus spoke into her mouth, making her lips form his words without voice, and heeded her once more.

_Where are you, little elf? Come, with your Gods, and face me._

Cullen voice came through like the hush of the ocean’s foam swishing across the shore and drowned them all underneath his rumbling current, “I love you. So much.”

“I love you too.” And with that, she tore from his arms and went through the door—leaving him with his god, holding his blessing to her heart, ready to finally bring a child playing god to his knees.


End file.
